


|with a shuffle of wings, their souls rise|

by littlekaracan



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Multi, a hopeful ending, adam is rightfully off the shits, and afterlife is literally canon, because of course he got too attached, crowley is very uncomfortable w/ the ordeal and aziraphale is grieving, hey adam and eve lived good lives ok, i mean they're in denial but hey they'll get there, right so: eve dies of old age this is that kind of fic, the soft bastard, with like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-05-28 12:31:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19394191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlekaracan/pseuds/littlekaracan
Summary: You’re lying to yourself,Crawley screamed to him from up the hill, but, oh, Aziraphale’s imagining it.You’re lying to yourself. She’s dying. She’s dying. She’s no work. She’s a person and a woman and a mother and a daughter to Her, and the ground itself will weep while taking her back. The ground and all its creatures, you and me, and the Almighty will shed a single tear in Her throne room, and all the demons and some angels will look up and ask, is this the ineffable plan? Is this what you do to those you love? Is this destruction what you call love?Aziraphale silenced him and shook his head. His hand was quivering. He could feel it coming, he could hear the shuffling of a rising angel from Hell, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop them. And oh, Aziraphale would try. He’s nothing but a Principality, perhaps, but he’d take his flaming sword from the fire and stand in front of them, and try and defy them.But there was nothing he could do. Nothing Adam could do. Nothing Crawley could do, and Aziraphale felt his bitterness, and shared it with no shame.





	1. fog in a setting sun

**Author's Note:**

> i'm dummy terrified of putting this on here because ao3 is full of Good (Good) Omens fics and i feel like i should get a permission slip or something before shoving it out there but here we go. let's clown together lads

Eve locked her hands together as the sun set, and as wind from the west gently brushed her hair from her eyes. It didn’t make much difference to her, though; her eyes hadn’t been the same ever since slim threads of gray started making their way across her hair, and deepening creases wrinkled the previously smooth skin. She didn’t mind the passage of time reflected on her body, not anymore, at least.

There were times, admittedly, years ago, when she would look at her palms, at the wrinkles and the scars and the discoloured patches of skin, and she would weep for the youth and the immortality that had recoiled into her soul. The sparkle in her eye and the spring in her laughter would not return again, and she couldn’t force them. Eve grew old and tired, and the exhaustion, she found, came not from her age itself but from the regret for her lack of accomplishment in her proper youth.

When she found the cause – the Regret - she cautiously wrapped her hands around its neck and squeezed, strangling it for years and years. Screaming at its dishonesty, at its lies – she had plenty of accomplishments. And when the Regret and the lies finally fell to her feet, limp and forsaken and defenseless like writhing serpents, she crushed them and found peace.

This wasn’t her first sunset; this wasn’t going to be the last, Eve decided. Despite not being able to see the individual rays of sunshine all that well, the soft red warmth enveloped her, bathed her and made her feel like she was back in Eden, where the sparkle in her eye was bright, her hair was dark and her smile shone brighter than the sky.

It was a kind place, Eden. The lands beyond – not so much. But one shouldn’t forget how Adam and Eve came to be, after all – born out of light and love in the same kindness of Eden that they carried in their hearts. And with that kindness, they made the land their home and a new Eden – less sacred, perhaps, less safe, but it _was_ their Eden now, and Eve never regretted a single stone they put down or a single animal they kept.

It would be fair to mention how many times they’d find snakes among those animals – all the same, staring at Eve with eyes that accused, eyes that judged. Even when she was younger, all she did was sigh and, after grabbing the snakes by their thick necks one by one, flung them away from the cattle, promising to pick up a stone and grind their skulls into dust if she saw them near again. She never could, though, her hand would refuse to rise, and she never went through with her threats.

Besides, some of them would try and talk to her, and it seemed cruel to kill those that lived so vividly; Eve would never answer them, though. She’d learned not to converse with serpents, and she did not like the consequence of her previous experience one bit.

He had been a trickster, that one – she’d settled on the name after she had stopped regretting. Before, he had been the Enemy, the Liar, the Tempter and many other names she and Adam could muster up, but Eve and Adam grew and settled, and, in time, stopped thinking of the gifts they were robbed of altogether, for the most part, thanking the Almighty for the ones they still had. Their children, Cain and Abel and the others; their grandchildren and the children of their grandchildren. And all the animals roaming the Earth, and the rivers and plains they found, the fruits they grew. She was grateful.

One day, however, Eve felt him staring from the den, and she recognized him effortlessly from something unsettling he brought with him wherever he was. She had been stupid not to realize it back in the Garden immediately, how the wind grew a little harsher around him and how naked and bare everything felt when he was near, but they had been blind then, blind and clueless of the pain and chaos the Serpent was capable of unleashing.

And when she felt that wind and that insecurity, Eve knew what to look for. Black scales and glimmering patches of red that stuck out from the green and brown and even silver of the usual snakes. She locked eyes with him for a second.

Then Eve, brave and enraged Eve, overflown by memories and buried hurt, stuck her hand into the bunch of snakes and plucked the Enemy out, and she brought him to the cliff which was easy to scale in her youth.

She held him up there, in the sun, for as long as she could, without making so much as a sound, staring him down. And he stared back. He did not look scared, but somewhere inside Eve knew she wanted him to fear.

Before she could fling him off, however, he slithered up her arm, having wiggled out of her grasp with offending ease, and leapt out into the air, landing a step of two away from her.

The Serpent landed like a snake, with a soft thud on the grass, but when Eve spun, ready to grab him again, she found no snake.

Instead, the Serpent was sitting on the ground, human legs crossed and human lips twisted and human hair red on his scalp. _Never hesitate_ , Eve told herself, and saw what she was looking for – the eyes, the eyes were still yellow and split and achingly different, so she simply up and chased the Serpent that had taken her life from her, which, in hindsight, might’ve been a stupid thing to do.

The Serpent watched her approach before collapsing back into a snake and pressing himself to the ground before disappearing out of her sight. Eve stomped around for a while before her conscience brought her back and reminded her of the forgiveness she had forgotten.

Next time, she decided, she’d leave him be.

And there was a next time, which Eve denied noticing – and the next one, and the one after that. The Serpent came and went along with the other snakes, and Eve wondered for a while if those were demons as well, but she didn’t put much thought into it. Why would she? She had enough trouble seeing her young and Adam around to think about such things. And the Serpent seemed to genuinely just like watching her go about her days, in a way.

He had almost grown close to her, in some twisted meaning of the word. She’d despise him to the end of days, of course, but she also made a point in not showing it, and when she bottled hate up, surprisingly, it tended to diminish with each passing hour instead of threatening to explode.

And so it happened.

As she sat, nearing the sunset of her life just like the sunset of the day, she could hear shuffling in the grass nearby, and it was not Adam. She could easily tell. It was a snake, and Eve also knew it was not just any snake.

She then heard more, like the sound of someone shaking the dust and sand off themselves, and she didn’t need to look to vividly see the unchanged red-headed man, now sitting next to her with his legs still crossed and eyes still split.

This time, however, she didn’t chase him. Didn’t even look at him. Didn’t think she’d address him, until she felt her lips part themselves, and there was much less venom in her voice than she assumed she was harbouring.

“You know I’m not strong enough to throw you over now, is that why you’re near?” Eve questioned him, and the Serpent laughed. She hadn’t heard his voice in many years, and she had never heard him laugh at all. It was a human laugh.

“I’m always near,” he told her lightly. “I am near- _er_ because you can’t just grab me and snap my neck, yes.”

She sighed, imagining the exact situation he just described – picking him up and tying him into a knot, and then kicking him off the hill to roll as she watches. Admittedly, it was a rather pleasant image, though, sadly, one she came up with a few centuries too late. Even then, she had promised herself to be forgiving, unlike the God she still loved.

But she had tasted the Fruit, and she knew he came for a different reason.

She had lived a thousand years, and she knew it herself. A distant feeling grew in her bones for the last few years. It had become nearly unbearable, despite her best efforts in anticipating the next sunset, the next dawn, and so on, and so on, just one more day, _one more day_.

It would be over, however. It would all pass, and she would pass with it. Soon. _Soon_.

“Does Hell hurt,” she then asked, but her tone did not rise. It was a sudden question to be delivered right after, but it was something she found she cared about.

The Serpent regarded her for a moment, and she turned her head enough to look right into his eyes. She didn’t see the eyes, back then. All she saw was the Fruit.

“Hell is as Hell should be,” the Serpent said, and there was a strange serenity in his voice. “You don’t yet know if you’re going to Hell, though.”

“I am going somewhere, and it won’t be Heaven,” she said, and the breeze felt just a little colder again. It was his presence, she told herself.

“Did She tell you that?”

“No.” Eve shook her head with a weary smile. “No, of course not. Why would She? We should live our lives the way She intended, be kind and pure and true to our soul because it’s the right thing to do, not because we’re scared of Her.”

“Then why _are_ you scared?” The Serpent was unblinking. Really, when Eve thought about it, she could always feel those strange yellow eyes on her, and they did not stop watching, not even for a second.

“I’m not scared.”

“You’re really not achieving anything by lying to me, you know.” He spread his legs – his very awfully human legs – and smiled. “I’m a personified lie, if you think about it. You can’t out-lie me. Can’t imagine why you’d want to, except that maybe you’re ashamed of not qualifying for Heaven, which – you do, you know, you’re far more bearable than half the suckers I remember.” His smile was not bright or sunny like hers or soft and lenient like Adam’s, or genuine but quivering like the Angel’s that gave them his flaming sword years ago. Instead, it was clever and sharp, and she remembered seeing the exact same smile on the sacred tree right before taking the Fruit.

 _Strange_ , she thought. The snake on the tree did not smile. Where was this one from, then?

“For a personified lie, you have told me many truths,” she commented, and he mirrored her, locking his fingers together.

“I have told you many lies that I believe myself,” the Serpent said. “That doesn’t make them truths.”

“Put it however you like.” Eve looked on, tilting her head up a little so she could still see the sunlight that was so desperately trying to hide from her under the woods on the horizon. “But why are you here?”

“Where else would I be?” He opened his arms, gesturing toward her. “You’re my most prized success.”

“I’m not your success and I won’t ever be one,” Eve said, calmer than a still lake as she eyed the snake. “Oh, talk about prizing me again and I’ll cross you.”

“Now, now, don’t get hasty.” The Serpent raised his hands in a gesture of mock peace. “We don’t need to bring violence into anything.”

“Unholy abomination,” Eve said.

The Serpent huffed before replying, “Gullible ant.” For a serpent, his words had no bite.

Then, before he could close his mouth, he hissed.

Eve glanced at him, a little startled – and she was surprised to find him with a similar expression of confusion, as if he’d never hissed before, at least not with that mouth.

He was quick to compose himself and shrug in feigned indifference.

“Must’ve lost myself for a moment.” Eve saw his cheek bulge slightly as he flicked his tongue to the sides of his mouth, like a child that wanted to see what he could do with a new toy, all previous quarrels forgotten.

“How short is my life,” Eve said, a little bleak, “that even you’re finding new joys, and mine have all already passed?”

The Serpent watched her for a minute or two, so intently she had a few doubts about whether he was even capable of blinking. Slowly, his face became a constant that, as peculiar as it was, she would’ve had trouble distinguishing from her own family.

“”S not that short, y’know.” He took time to eye her in displeasure. “I’m not that much older than you. And still you’ve found all the joys you can, and there are plenty that have passed you as small and insignificant that would mean the world to others,” he said, and Eve thought about it. _What others?_

After a pause, he spoke again, and his voice grew a little quieter.

“Be glad you don’t have eternity. It’s not a fate you’d like.”

And Eve stared right back at him, the Serpent – the Snake, the Tempter, the Lie – and she tried to find sympathy, but it didn’t work out, simply because he didn’t look like he wanted any. But her tongue wouldn’t cooperate in scorning him either – _You forsake Her, you chose this, you rose against Her_ – and, to her dismay, she realized why.

Hadn’t she and Adam done the same? Hadn’t they risen against Her similarly, hadn’t they went against Her direct orders?

And, horribly, she found herself tied to the demon beside her in more ways than she expected.

Disgusted with herself, knocking down the regret that was trying to rise from its grave again, Eve turned away from him.

“And so,” she said dully, “you’re here to tell me I’m going to die, then?”

“Oh, sure, you’re going to die,” the Serpent offered pleasantly. “And so is Adam, and your children, and the children of your children, and so on, and so forth. All of them, in due time.”

Eve eyed him again, and he shrunk back a little.

“Thank you for the reminder, I’m sure that’s one of your ‘that doesn’t make them the truth’ statements.”

The Serpent shrugged. “I can’t only lie. I’m good at it, sure, but if the truth is a little more hurtful, well – it does the job better than any lie.”

“And what is the job, exactly?” Eve asked sourly, and he shrugged again.

“Exemplary chaos and general ruckus, you’d know.” His teeth were a little too sharp to look human, Eve noticed, or maybe he couldn’t care enough to mirror a human completely.

“The complete opposite of him, then.”

She was looking at Adam – he’d emerged by the base of the hill she was on, and waved at her. _Oh, love_. Eve raised a hand. He had the aura around him again, the golden-and-white glow he usually wouldn’t carry unless there was a different kind of creature walking beside him.

The Angel, Eve found, had often followed her husband instead of her, and she understood. She was never envious. She wouldn’t exactly know how to talk to him. The demon, on the other hand, was foul-mouthed and condescending, and Eve was a mother and a grandmother. She’d long-learned how to tolerate those qualities, and, when they got too irritating, how to control them.

She watched as Adam exchanged a few words with the entity before leaving, and, at some point, there was another tiny hiss to her side.

Eve glanced to the side, curious, only to start laughing at the view. The Serpent eyed her. She couldn’t see him doing it, though, as he was small curled up beside her, shielding himself with her body, not in the shape of a person but a snake again.

“It’s funny,” she said, and his head twitched a little when she nodded toward Adam. “Do you fear that angel?”

When he spoke, his voice rung in her head instead of around them, and the tone was a little more flat, strangled, even, like he was forced to overcome some limitations of a snake’s throat.

_You can see him?_

“Heavens, no!” She chuckled at the thought. “He’s there, though, isn’t he?”

The snake slowly treaded closer to her through the grass, and she lifted her hand to put it in her lap. Despite talking to him, she still did not like him. She’d throw him to the side if he tried to touch her.

 _How do you know, then?_ he asked, stopping at a safe distance. She shrugged.

“I feel him,” she answered. “He’s got something safe about him. I felt it when I last saw him, when he gave us his sword, and- and I remembered the warmth, I suppose. Figured it’d be him. Also, the fact that I can see Adam talking to someone helps too.”

 _Wouldn’t you want him near you instead of your husband?_ the Serpent hissed, and Eve flinched away from him even as her back rioted.

“Oh, I don’t want your seeds of jealousy, keep them to yourself,” she told him, firm in her decision, and he seemed to pull away from her somewhat. “If you keep near me because you think I’ll let you whisper into my ear again, you’re mistaken and you should go back to where you came from.”

The Serpent slowly sat back up into his human body, and Eve swore to see some kind of other hidden colour in the dim light of the yellow eyes. But she willingly turned away from him. She would not look as she spoke.

“If there was any, _any_ advantage from that Fruit, it was that I can tell that you reek of something foul, like there’s something dead in you, something that’s lost and can’t be forgiven, and I’m glad I can see that. Even if you stay near me for that eternity you so kindly guided us away from, I promise you I will never, never, never again believe a word that comes out of the mouth of the likes of you.”

Eve finally took a breath. There was something freeing in telling the demon exactly who he was and what she thought of him. But, when she searched for the impact of her words on his face, she found none. He simply had this soft, almost gentle expression on his face, like he was a father watching his child throw their first tantrum.

“I don’t need or want your promises,” he answered easily. “I have you— I had you, years ago, and you haven’t thrown me away.”

“I’ll ask my sons to throw you off the cliff if you’d like,” Eve offered, although even she knew that was a fruitless promise. She could barely walk to the cliff herself, these days, so walking all the way to her children was out of the question. The hill was steep enough to take some time.

“But I’ll return.” The Serpent’s tone was sweeter than the lull of the Fruit. “I’ll always return, you know.”

 _Okay, I’ll bite_ , she decided. “Then I’ll throw you off again.”

“You’ll grow tired of trying.”

“I’m already tired of you.”

“See, humble beginnings.”

“I’ll see that you meet a humble end if you keep this up.”

Despite obviously knowing it held no venom, the Serpent shut his mouth either way.

For approximately a minute and a half. Eve counted.

“And what would you say if I—“

She cut him off this time.

“Really, why are you here?”

Silence settled for a couple of moments, and the Serpent looked a bit like he was a child caught in destroying a sibling’s creation. He wasn’t looking at her anymore, glancing over his shoulder instead.

“I wanted to see you off,” he said, and Eve breathed.

“So I’m going,” she said.

The Serpent said nothing, and Eve bowed her head.

“How do you know?” She realized she had repeated his own question back to him a little too late, and he smiled.

“I don’t,” he confessed, mirroring her. “I think I just feel it, in a way.”

“I have a distinct suspicion I should be better at that than you,” Eve protested, turning her eyes to the sunset again. _No, I said it wouldn’t be the last one. I promised._

“Trust me, I can sense that, really. Although it’s—“ A black tongue – he must’ve not seen many human ones yet – emerged to lick his lips. “I haven’t before.”

“You don’t know what death feels like either, do you?” She asked, but it wasn’t like she particularly cared. Death was temporary, after all.

“No,” he answered. “But I know there are worse things.”

“Like Hell,” she added, and he gave her an annoyed look.

“Oh, be quiet about Hell, will you, you know nothing of it!” He glanced down, as if to apologize for the creatures downstairs. “Something tells me you won’t stay there long, if at all. Something’s afoot, what’s that—Oh, what’s that...—Right! Blatant favouritism of those Up There!”

Frantic, Eve shushed him.

“That’s no way to talk about them,” she scolded, but the Serpent only shrugged, leaning back.

“It’s not like they’d condemn you for hearing, and I don’t have anywhere to be condemned further. Demon Hell? Snake Hell? Just whip me up a little? I’m not that worried.” He smiled at her again, teeth bright and white and sharp, and Eve thought the world was spinning for a second. “We’ve nothing to lose.”

“What about Adam?” she whispered.

The Serpent looked up and away from her, somewhere in front. Although there was nothing there, it almost felt as if he was staring at something, or at someone. He was watching them, and Eve tried her best to see through the fog but her eyes were not compliant.

“Six days,” he replied, just as silently. “You’ll see him in a few.”

Her voice died in her throat. “Thank you,” she managed.

“Don’t.”

Slowly, unnoticeably, the Serpent stood up, abandoning her. Leaving the presence to do its job.

“Safe travels, Eve,” he said quietly, and she didn’t thank him again.

Eve looked up at him, and realized she could barely see. So she averted her gaze to her home, where Adam was undoubtedly sitting with the Angel, instead.

The sunset was the last thing she saw before falling forward, bony fingers clutching her neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you've enjoyed, next chapter will be up as soon as i stop crying over episode 3!!
> 
> right and do point out any obvious errors please, english is an absolute disaster on my brain


	2. the seventh dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> right, here we go, please enjoy!

As Adam raised a hand to wave at his wife with an exceptionally warm smile, Aziraphale leaned forward to inspect his face. _How strange_ , he thought.

“It’s endearing,” he commented instead, and Adam’s eyes wandered to him.

“What is?” he questioned, gracing him with an equally wide, though perhaps a little less warm smile. He was used to seeing the Angel around – always around him though, never Eve.

There was a reason why Aziraphale seldom journeyed to Eve. And the reason was sitting alongside her that very second, even if Adam couldn’t see it. The demon locked eyes with Aziraphale for a moment before recoiling into his serpent body, and Aziraphale huffed before replying to Adam.

“You still love her,” he explained, although there was no need.

“How would you know?” Adam asked, never denying it and raising a hand to stop him before he could speak. “No, no, wait, I know – you _sense_ it.”

“I do.”

“Of course you do.” He chuckled. “You always do, I know it at this point.”

Unfazed, Aziraphale continued, “All those years, and all those challenges and the unkind creatures and whatnot, and you still love her. Perhaps even harder than you did before.”

“Yes,” Adam confirmed, nearly glowing with delight. “That’s what years do to love, although I- I don’t know if I need to tell you that.”

“Please do.” Despite everything, despite sensing all the virtues that were and weren’t, despite loving the entire world more than he loved himself, Aziraphale couldn’t claim he’d loved anyone quite as dearly as Adam and Eve loved each other.

“Okay, well—“ he dropped his hand, stepping to the side, and Aziraphale followed, glad to be out of sight of Crawley. “I’ve only ever had her, you know. As demanding as she was sometimes, I was too, and she was willing to go through with it so I decided I’d go with her – and we just sort of...” He paused for a moment, giving an expressive shrug. “We never planned on falling in love, you know. It just happened, like it was meant to be.” He tilted his head, overcome with nostalgia, but Aziraphale didn’t notice. He was listening intently. “When we met, I already felt this strange sort of closeness to her, you know?” He looked up at the Angel before flicking his fingers with a laugh. “Alright, maybe you don’t.”

“I do,” Aziraphale said. That, he did.

“Ah, wonderful, then.” Adam looked on to him, a little curious, but his love for his wife prevailed. “It took us a bit of time, anyhow, but there we were then, together, and, almost immediately – ha, we’re standing on the edge of the world and we’re slipping through.” He continued with little sorrow. “And, as scary as it was, at first – although that sword of yours did help, I’m not sure if I ever told you – it sort of just, brought us closer to each other, I suppose.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said. Adam eyed him leniently.

“Do you?”

Going a bit red at the ears, he parted his lips, but said nothing for a minute.

“I don’t know, truly,” he confessed, and Adam whistled through his teeth.

“Right, well, you will, at some point, I think.” He looked a little confused, and it occurred to Aziraphale that he probably never had to explain such a thing to anyone before. Humans had a knack for understanding each other with few words. “I- I don’t know either, it’s not something you can just imagine, really. Can you even do that?”

“Do what?”

As they approached the human’s home, Adam sat on the grass by the fire, hands dug into the earth, resting. Aziraphale knelt next to him, a little cautious of the red red flame, but it was only pleasantly warm.

“Can you fall in love?” Adam repeated. Aziraphale didn’t really need to think.

“Yes,” he replied. “Love comes naturally to us. I love most things. The sunsets, the earth, the Creator, the fires, the forests, the--”

“Eve and me,” Adam aided. Aziraphale nodded earnestly.

“Eve and you,” he echoed. “For sure. And your children, and the children of your children, and those that will come after.”

“Sounds like quite some work.” Adam’s smile was bright on his face again. “But I don’t think we’re on the same page. I love the sunsets too. And the woods, and hills, and I love God, I love Her more than I could ever love any other miracle. Even if we made Her furious, and, we... We deserved it, but we never stopped loving Her. But Eve is different. Eve is... She’s...”

He shook his head.

“There’s nothing quite like her,” he whispered into the fire, and Aziraphale looked up into the sky. The light was scarce, now, soon only the fire would remain to brighten their vision. Angels could see in the dark, of course, and so could demons, but Aziraphale tried not to think too much about the reason he was not worried about leaving Crawley with Eve up on the hill.

He knew something Adam didn’t, and he preferred to keep it that way until it was necessary.

“I’m sure you’re right,” he said, quiet and a little mournful. There was nothing to mourn for, though. Not yet.

“I am.” The rays from the fire filled the space left behind by his aging skin, and Adam looked filled with something divine. Aziraphale leaned back a bit. Clouds of love all around them, and he felt like this was something only for Adam and Eve. He was merely a spectator, a little uncomfortable with the display but honoured to be able to witness it. “It’s, it’s...” Adam looked away from the fire, back to Aziraphale, eyes wide and foggy. “I’ve lived for so long, and nevertheless every morning I wake up and I look at her and— And she’s no less bright, she’s my, she’s my...”

He reached out to take Aziraphale’s hands and clasp them within his own, nearly desperate to have him understand. The bony fingers dug into Aziraphale’s palms, but the angel didn’t move an inch.

“I could never explain it. I pray you feel it one day, too. Everyone deserves to. There is no dearer companion than love, my friend, there is none.” He closed his eyes, and relaxed. Aziraphale waited for him to draw his hands back instead of doing it himself.

There was overwhelming sorrow settling over him, screeching cruel song, so deafening even Adam must’ve felt it. But, even if he did, maybe he made a subtle effort to convince himself he’d mistaken it for something else. Aziraphale stared into the fire along with him, his gaze constantly drifting back to the human canvas that Adam had become, his skin the sand and age the wind, perfecting the final touches on a painting that will baffle with beauty for one fleeting moment and be gone the next. He’d seen Eve baffle and bewitch, if that was a suiting word, and he wasn’t sure he had the strength to see her crumble.

Out of a sheer lack of thoughts taking up the void in his head, he turned slightly to listen to what Eve and Crawley were discussing. And they were discussing something, he could tell, because wherever he went, Crawley brought a certain chilly breeze with him, and he had heard Eve’s displeased retort to something as he was walking past.

A smile slowly crept upon his face. _She has her head on right_ , he thought. _Tempted, fallen, just like him, but she knows not to associate._

The smile disappeared as quickly as it had surfaced. A reminder of red hair brushing against the feathers in his wing flew past. _Of course, I’m the right person to talk about associations._

He shook his head and listened.

“ _How short is my life that even you’re finding new joys, and mine have all already passed?_ ” Eve did not exactly sound bitter, but Aziraphale knew better. She was grateful, after all, for all the years she had spent here. Crawley seemed to miss that, though.

“‘ _S not that short, y’know.”_ He came off as nearly offended. Aziraphale could imagine him crossing his arms, or maybe raising an eyebrow _. “I’m not that much older than you. And still you’ve found all the joys you can, and there are plenty that have passed you as small and insignificant that would mean the world to others_.” Then, after a little pause, Crawley’s voice grew quieter, and Aziraphale had to strain even his enhanced ears to hear him. “ _Be glad you don’t have eternity. It’s not a fate you’d like_.”

Aziraphale frowned and turned to the fire. _You can’t tell her that while knowing what happens tonight_ , he wanted to shout at the serpent, but he only fixed his glare hard on the flame and let him speak. He’d been tailing her for her whole life, she could handle him still.

Instead, he worried for Adam. _He’s going to be destroyed, poor dear._

And as bright as he burned now, it was the last flame before dark, too. Really, Aziraphale didn’t know what he was going to do once they were both gone. He was so used to watching them, being there with them – Heaven could, Heaven _will_ think up some duties for him, but, really, they’ll all pale before Adam and Eve.

“Adam,” he called. Adam quirked up at his name, looking for the angel with aged eyes, smiling. “Thank you.”

The smile faded a little.

“Oh, what— what for?” he asked, lacing his fingers together.

Aziraphale hummed in response. He’d blurted it out without really thinking about it, and now he couldn’t just answer Adam genuinely.

_For telling me about love. For helping me love the world. For telling me what it feels like and for loving Eve, and Cain, and Abel, and Her, and the Earth._

“I cannot truly say,” he muttered. “For everything, bit by bit, I suppose.”

“In that case, you’re welcome.” Adam laughed, and his laugh stung Aziraphale. _Oh, my dear boy._

He looked up into the stars, counting nebulas and constellations. Trying to calm his mind, lest Adam feels his sorrow too early. She lived a good life, Aziraphale thought, despite everything. And he did as well.

He pondered for a moment whether it was because they shared their lives with each other.

Love crinkled in Adam’s eyes. Aziraphale locked his gaze on them, and tried to breathe in, follow the rise of his chest. He did not need air, but his throat was suddenly a little tight.

 _Oh, I’m so sorry_.

He wanted to reach out to Adam ahead of time, somehow. Maybe give him a hug or something, he wasn’t really sure. Not really thinking straight, either. And, somehow, from up the hill, he could feel Crawley’s mind in the same state of uneasiness as his is in right now. Another thing they shared, but Aziraphale didn’t make up a reason why it was justifiable. Instead, he told himself Crawley was just disappointed his best work was fading.

 _You’re lying to yourself_ , Crawley screamed to him from up the hill, but, oh, Aziraphale’s imagining it. _You’re lying to yourself. She’s dying. She’s dying. She’s no work. She’s a person and a woman and a mother and a daughter to Her, and the ground itself will weep while taking her back. The ground and all its creatures, you and me, and the Almighty will shed a single tear in her throne room, and all the demons and some angels will look up and ask, is this the ineffable plan? Is this what you do to those you love? Is destruction love?_

Aziraphale silenced him and shook his head. His hand was quivering. He could feel it coming, he could hear the shuffling of a rising angel from Hell, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop them. And oh, Aziraphale would try. He’s nothing but a Principality, perhaps, but he’d take his flaming sword from the fire and stand in front of them, and try and defy them.

But there was nothing he could do. Nothing Adam could do. Nothing Crawley could do, and Aziraphale felt his bitterness, and shared it with no shame.

He closed his eyes again. The fire burned through his eyelids.

There, there.

There, _there_.

 _There, there_ , the sky shouts as Death flies. He flies up, and up. He flies, and the moon is clouded. He flies, and Aziraphale glues his eyes to the ground. He flies, and Aziraphale blesses Eve, then Adam, then the warmth he’s sending them. Stars fall, and, and, and...

And, then, there, she falls with them.

There it was. Aziraphale felt it rather than heard it, and what he felt was absolute dismay rolling down from the top of the hill. It wasn’t Eve, not anymore, but whoever stood there grieved for a moment, and then it was all gone, replaced by sudden vast emptiness.

Aziraphale closed his eyes.

Beside him, Adam blinked. He felt it, too. Aziraphale wouldn’t know how, and if he would’ve asked days later, Adam would’ve simply answered, “I loved her. I knew.”

Visibly uneasy, he leapt to his feet, as hard as it must’ve been, and eyed the angel.

“What happened?” he asked, in a small small voice.

But Aziraphale said nothing. He didn’t move at all. This was not for him to tell. It was for Adam to discover.

And Adam ran – weary as he might’ve been, and not so young anymore, not really, but he ran like the wind, scrambling up the hill.

Aziraphale stilled.

 _All are of the dust, and all turn to dust again_ , he whispered to himself, then reached out into the blazing fire and lifted a fistful of ash. _And ashes to ashes, and ashes to ashes_ , he continued, slowly relaxing his hand as the wind that had caressed his face so kindly mere seconds now stole the only warmth left and scattered it across the fields.

He felt Eve’s spirit dance to her feet, and chase the ash, the ash and the light and the divine warmth she held in her soul, dusting the darkening spots off with relative ease.

And, by the fire, tears drying as soon as they escaped his eyes, Aziraphale cried for Eve. For Eve and for Adam, who was clawing his way up the hill, shouting, calling, crying out for his heart and his sun, and hearing no answer. Aziraphale couldn’t stand to chase him, but he wanted nothing more than to be close and to wrap his arms around the world that was being shattered, to raise his wings and shield all of them from the hurt – him, Adam, even that demon, that Crawley with his never-ending questions and mischievous large eyes. All of them.

He stood up slowly, though, slowly. And followed Adam, slowly. Walked through the grass, feet shuffling, soles wet with dew. He took one look at the surfacing moon and knew that the cold light would sting, but he turned his back on it and faced the truer hurt, watching Adam’s gray head disappear on top of the hill, then deafening, agonizing, burning silence as the man checked. As he waited, and he hoped.

Aziraphale locked eyes with Death, and they did not address each other further.

Then, his legs betrayed him. And he ran as well.

Halfway up the hill, however, Aziraphale froze dead in his tracks, stopped by Adam’s cry.

It was not just a cry, no. It was a scream of absolute despair, of pain no injury could cause, no torture or anything other than loss. The loss that had collapsed on top of Adam in such a short time was by far the worst that humanity had in a long time.

Abel had been the first to die, of course, and the greatest waste of life for ages to come. Admittedly, Aziraphale had stood over Adam and Eve then as well, as they grieved for their young son, their child, the embodiment of their love itself, and he had given them blessings and warmth beyond what he was allowed to as he wept for Abel, equally distraught – but they had always had each other. They had always had their love to share, and Eve’s death marked the death of their love as well, albeit temporary. But the Earthly love they shared, Aziraphale was convinced, was not the same as the unending and unconditional Heavenly love that God promised.

And that was what Adam wept for, now, as Aziraphale finally scaled the hill and remained still in silence, and it seemed like even grass stood in attention, in compassion. 

Adam had raised Eve into his lap, his hand brushing her disobeying hair with gentler motions than Aziraphale had ever seen performed. His fingers were shaking and his head was bowed (though there was no hiding the large pearly tears that were rolling freely down his cheeks from an angel), and he kissed Eve’s forehead and cheeks and the very tip of her nose, and he kissed closed her eyelids and he rocked her like a sleeping child, and he cried and cried and called out and cursed and cried again.

 _Oh, Adam_ , Aziraphale could’ve said, watching him pepper her with the very last kisses he was allowed. But he didn’t say anything. He merely watched until his view blurred too, and tiny little droplets banded together, slithering down his cheeks, over his lips and dripping from his chin and down to the grass. All the while, Aziraphale said nothing.

And, albeit content with his silence, he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t heard something in the grass to his side.

 _Angel,_ Crawley said, looking up at him from the dim yellow of his eyes. Aziraphale didn’t answer him verbally while Adam could still hear him. Instead, he cloaked himself in the fog that was setting over the fields, unseen and unheard to mortal eye and ear, only then turning to address the Serpent.

“Why were you here?” He asked, and his voice was not as cold as he wanted it to be.

Crawley stared for a moment, then shot a glance at the silhouette of Adam and Eve before standing up straight and dusting his arms off, hair messy and red and slightly damp from the dew. Eyes still yellow, though.

“Not too keen on greetings, are you,” he said. Aziraphale pretended not to have heard that. “Oh, angel. I’m trying to make small talk here, help me out a bit.”

“Don’t you think small talk is a little less than appropriate given our current whereabouts?” He gestured vaguely toward Adam’s unmoving body, the knuckles nearly white as he held onto his wife for dear life.

Crawley huffed, which, in Aziraphale’s honest opinion, wasn’t the best thing to do either. “What else am I supposed to say? ‘Oi, feathery fellow, lookin’ a bit blue all of a sudden, could it be you’re feeling a little under the weather because the first man and woman just died?’ Not that much better, now is—“

“The first woman,” Aziraphale cut him off.

“Hm?”

“Adam’s alive. He’ll stay that way for a little more,” he reminded bleakly, and Crawley waved in dismissal.

“A little more’s what, a week?” he muttered. “You can count him a goner, too.”

Aziraphale gaped at him for a second.

“You brute!” The gentle look turned to a glare, nothing less than horrified. “Every day of life is precious!”

“Yeah, to you,” Crawley said, and Aziraphale noted how hollow his voice sounded, almost regretful. Deceptiveness of a serpent, Aziraphale assumed, but it sounded less and less like it as they spoke. Hopelessly, Crawley mimicked his gesture toward Adam. “Look at him, angel. Then look me in the eye and tell me you think he’ll appreciate that precious life you talk of now. When he’s lost her.”

“Don’t pretend to care about them,” Aziraphale bristled. Crawley looked down at him, an empty look on his face.

“I don’t,” he said. “I have things to do, you know. Wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t liked the bastards just a tiny bit more than I should’ve.”

“And don’t call them that,” Aziraphale scolded again. Crawley made a sound that resembled laughter.

“Neither of them gives half a shit about what a filthy serpent like me calls them, trust me.”

“I do. Don’t call them that.”

He tilted his head at Aziraphale, exasperated, but the angel stood firm.

“Okay,” he relented. “I won’t. Then don’t claim to know what I’m feeling. It’s pretentious and also it makes you look like prick.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, but something kept him from snapping back at him.

“Alright,” he agreed. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, for Heavens’ sake, just keep apologies off your tongue,” Crawley scoffed. The _S_ ’s were just a little too stretched to sound natural. Subconsciously, Aziraphale checked if Crawley hadn’t fallen back into a snake on the grass.

“I mean it,” he assured.

“I’m glad. Now forget about it.”

So Aziraphale did. He had no idea for how long they stood shoulder to shoulder, watching Adam weep as he rocked Eve back and forth, trailing shaking fingers over her hair and face. Uncomfortable thoughts were spinning in the heads of both angel and demon.

Only the slowly surfacing sunlight broke their silence as the two realized they’d probably long overstayed each other’s welcome, and Crawley cleared his throat as Aziraphale lingered, debating whether he should walk away or go pat Adam on the shoulder or something.

“Oh, leave the blessed bas—“ Crawley bit his tongue. “Leave him to it, he’ll settle himself.”

“Not much time left for that,” Aziraphale murmured. “What did you say—A week?”

“Six days.” Crawley nodded, crossing his arms. His eyes were strangely entrancing, capturing most of the light of the morning stars. “Oh, they’ll be together again in an unfairly short amount of time.”

“Hmm.”

Noticing Aziraphale in thought, Crawley leaned forward a bit, intent on catching his glance.

“You’re gonna be here?” He guessed, and Aziraphale shrugged. “Oh, you are. You really do plan on seeing him off, huh?”

“I’ve grown somewhat attached,” he blurted out, and did his very best not to curse. Those weren’t the things one told a demon. Much less a demon like Crawley, who was (to Aziraphale’s rare displeasure) a bit more slippery and difficult to handle than most others. Not that he associated himself with many other demons.

 _Not that he associated himself with Crawley either,_ Aziraphale bit at himself, ashamed.

Crawley nodded, looking somewhat weary.

“I see,” he said. “Well then. Will you get too worked up with me being there too?”

Aziraphale turned to him, confused. “Why?”

Crawley sputtered for a moment. “I—I just want to see him off too, I guess.”

There were lies Aziraphale could never have deciphered on Crawley’s tongue, and then there were those easier than spotting truth. But he didn’t pry.

“No,” he said. “Why do you ask if I’ll mind?”

Crawley gaped at him for a second, then huffed in offense.

“Would you prefer I just slithered up on you without you even knowing?”

“Well—No, of course not, but—“

“Then have the decency to thank me for the warning, angel.” He gave a half-smile. “I’m not the most pleasant presence to have around, I’m sure.”

And, in the morning sun, for a fleeting moment, he was human.

Aziraphale shook his head.

“You’re fine,” he said quietly. Behind them, Adam finally stood up, Eve in his arms. “See you in six days, then, foul spirit.”

“Right, right. Foul spirit. Creative, angel. Creative.” He made a similar motion to the very first one, sort of dusting himself off, except this time he crumbled and fell into scales once more.

Hidden in the grass, his voice growing more and more distant, Crawley asked, _Mind finally telling me your name, Angel of the Eastern Gate? Unfair for you to know mine and for me not to know yours._

Aziraphale blessed Adam for the last time, and wished Eve a peaceful rest. Then turned to the grass.

“In six days,” he said. “If you do come, I’ll tell you.”

Before he went, he told himself he only imagined a fading sigh from the ground below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hoped you liked my attempt at angsting my way through ships!!


End file.
